


The Gag Gift Recurrence

by Berty



Series: A Fit Of Fashion [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Long Distance Sex, M/M, Masturbation, POV John Watson, Sexting, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Snippets, Texting, Train Sex, Underwear Kink, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Voyeurism, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29430939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: John and Sherlock don't really 'do' Valentines - until Sherlock decides that they do.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: A Fit Of Fashion [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1075575
Comments: 20
Kudos: 82
Collections: Be my Valentine - Johnlock Collection





	The Gag Gift Recurrence

**Author's Note:**

> A snippet from the Fit Of Fashion Series set several months after The Happily Ever After Hypothesis.

John Watson is too old for Valentines - he's a grown man, for goodness sake - a doctor, and a war veteran. The bathroom scales tell him he should not have chocolates, he has no need for overpriced roses and he's never, ever seen a heart-laden greetings card that hasn't made him feel either faintly nauseous or horribly patronised. Valentine's Day is for kids, for those married to their childhood sweethearts and those with a hopelessly romanticised view of loving relationships, and he reminds himself of these points as he shaves in the bathroom mirror on the morning of the fourteenth of February.

He hadn't expected a card or a note to magically appear. He and Sherlock don't really do that, and not even his consulting genius could have arranged for something to be delivered while John slept - the messenger might well have ended up shot if they had tried to sneak in - John does not sleep deeply.

Sherlock is in Edinburgh at the moment, but he's booked onto a flight later on that morning to bring him back home to London having wrapped up a rather interesting identity theft case late last night. It's not the kind of job Sherlock would normally bestir himself from Baker Street for, but there had been a few aspects that had piqued his interest enough to get him up to Scotland, particularly when Mycroft had said he had a case he wanted Sherlock to look into. Instantly the potential case had gone from an unusual five to a 'must have' eight by dint of the opportunity to irritate his brother.

When Sherlock had called last night, he'd seemed happy enough to have solved it, and had rated it a six overall due to the complexity of the plot, the chance to visit Edinburgh, a place he loved, and the fact that the family involved could trace their lineage directly from William Kidd, the seventeenth century pirate. He'd also sounded pleased to be coming home. Neither of them enjoyed cases as much as when they could work them together, and although John's job at Barts is ridiculously forgiving of his erratic hours, he had already committed himself to three days worth of A & E shifts before the call came in. 

John, who now has three days off, is very keen to see his husband of only seven months. It sounds like he might get a pretty interesting story to write up, but the truth is that John misses Sherlock. Never mind that it's February fourteenth - they wouldn't have celebrated it anyway, but John is going to use the excuse of Sherlock's return to open one of the good bottles that Mycroft gives them every Christmas and cook something a bit more special than their usual fare. He has lamb shanks in the fridge and a recipe printed out from the internet. Sherlock won't even remember that it's Valentine's Day anyway, so John is safe to spoil him without being challenged on it.

Wincing at the memory of it even now, John remembers last year and the ill-advised gift that he had given Sherlock. It had been half-joking and half-heartfelt when he'd noticed them and bought them on the spot, deciding that they were something Sherlock might like or at least give him a good giggle. He'd been utterly wrong on both points, of course. He'd never seen them again, after Sherlock's slightly bemused thanks, and they had never spoken of his miscalculation since. 

It's rare for him to have a day to himself without an over focussed consulting detective making demands of him or a bored and bratty berk in need of distraction. John feels he ought to make the most of it, do something he wouldn't normally get time to enjoy, but beyond being allowed to watch his own choice of viewing material on the TV, he can't actually think of anything he'd rather do with Sherlock there too. He knows how smitten and pathetically in love that makes him sound, but he doesn't give a monkey's - he's not ashamed of being totally gone on his new husband. He knows that fortune has taken pity on him and given him this opportunity - he fully intends to be grateful for it.

He decides to tidy up a bit and put a load or two of washing on. He changes the sheets for Sherlock's favourites, cleans the bathroom and even uncovers a tablecloth from the airing cupboard to cover the chemical stains that he can't get off the kitchen table. And if he also finds (after twenty minutes of dedicated searching) a candle and a candlestick, well, that will make Sherlock's return supper even more special. 

At one o'clock the doorbell rings and John is on the stairs in seconds but as fast as he is, Mrs Hudson is faster, tricky hip notwithstanding, and she accepts the armful of roses from the courier with a coo of delight. She thanks the driver and closes the door, turning to see John.

"They're from Ranbir. I know we've had our disagreements, but it is lovely to be remembered on Valentine's Day isn't it?" she says with a smile of delight, then looks more closely at her lodger. "Is Sherlock not home yet, dear?"

"Uh, no. Not yet. He's due to land shortly, so he won't be long now." John absolutely did not have his hopes up that Sherlock had wrangled an earlier flight to surprise him. He'd been lucky to get the flight he had found on such short notice. John still can't persuade his heart from feeling heavy though.

"Oh, it's good that he got ahead of the weather. You boys can celebrate later then. Have you got somewhere booked?"

"Oh, no. Just a quiet night in, you know?"

"Sounds lovely. I'll probably be out myself tonight," she says, admiring the undoubtedly expensive bouquet, "so don't worry about waking me." She winks at John and disappears back through her own door.

John walks back upstairs and resolutely ignores the conversation he’s just had. He decides to spend time answering some of the comments on his blog. He doesn't like to put up a new post until he's finished answering comments on the last one, and if, as he suspects, Sherlock has a juicy new story for him to draft, he ought to spend some time tidying up the page. He works his way through them without much enthusiasm, feeling guilty that he’s not more grateful for the time people took to comment, even the slightly crazy ones. 

When his phone pings, John nearly drops it in his hurry to see the message.

**Flight has been cancelled after being delayed three times. All flights grounded due to heavy snow. SH**

John's breath leaves him in a rush and his heart drops further in his chest. He flicks to the BBC app and sees that the top three stories are related to the heavy snow and blizzard conditions being experienced further north. 

**Bollocks. Any idea when they predict that flights will restart?**

John pulls up his weather app and swears quietly when he sees the forecast - there's no way Sherlock is getting out of Edinburgh by air today and probably not tomorrow either by the look of it. 

**I asked several times but no one was terribly helpful. Then they asked me to leave. SH**

John smiles sadly, imagining what 'asking' and 'several times' looked like to the poor airport staff. Sherlock is not a patient man when he's been thwarted. Just because it was the weather that was against him this time doesn't mean that any available human wouldn't have received the brunt of his dissatisfaction.

**I'd have texted you earlier but they have only just re-established the mobile signal. I'm not sure how long that will last though. I'm sorry, John. SH**

**It can't be helped. So I'll see you when I see you?**

There's no reply and John puts his phone down after ten minutes of waiting. The rest of the afternoon and evening seem to stretch out before him endlessly. It's madness - he didn't meet his madman until he was well into his thirties - what the hell did he do with all of those Sherlock-less hours? He doesn't want to call to see if anyone wants to meet him for a drink - first because he doesn't think that there's a place in the city that isn't full of couples tonight and secondly because anyone he does call is most likely part of one of those couples. 

He pokes about with his blog for a while longer, then makes himself some tea and watches whatever movie is on the TV. It's only after half an hour that he realises that he has seen it before and he hated it the first time too. It's getting dark already, so John pulls the curtains and turns on the lights. He thinks about lighting a fire, but it doesn't seem worth it when it's just for him. He cooks himself some pasta with some tomato sauce from a jar, finds his reading glasses and picks up the most recent BMJ on the pile beside his chair, catching up on the latest research in the world of medicine until it's a reasonable time for him to call it a night and go to bed. 

As he changes back into pyjamas, John tries to call Sherlock but an annoying female voice tells him that his number is currently unavailable and to try again later. She tells him the same thing the next three times he calls too. He checks the airports at Edinburgh and Glasgow but there is just a list of cancelled flights and no other real information. Making a cuppa to take to bed with him, he leaves the light on in the hallway on the off chance that Sherlock makes it home tonight. He's not hopeful, but there's nothing he can do about it. 

John is just dozing off with the latest Peter May novel tipped onto his chest when his phone chirps. It's a facetime call alert from Sherlock, and John is smiling as he swipes to accept the call.

"John," Sherlock says with every evidence of relief.

"Hi, love! Are you okay?"

The picture is not great, it freezes and lags but the audio is good. 

"Fine."

The light wherever he is, is a horrible yellow and it highlights Sherlock's face all wrong. There's a lot of background noise too but at least the video signal is beginning to settle.

"Where are you?"

"On the train. I managed to get a berth on the overnight sleeper. We only departed a quarter of an hour ago."

"Fantastic," John smiles.

"Yes and no,” Sherlock hedges, rolling his eyes. “I won't be in until tomorrow morning. A whole day wasted, John! Not even Captain Kidd's great-great-great-great whatever is worth how dull it has been here today. If you'd been here..."

"If I'd been there, you would have got just as bored and pissed me off in the process."

"True, but at least we'd have been together." Sherlock's eyes flick away and he licks his lips. He seems to measure his words before he speaks them. " I had a surprise for you."

John is so thrilled to see his husband, tired and testy, but safe and on his way home, he's completely forgotten the date. 

"It's not quite the same when we're this far apart, but... Do you want to see?" Sherlock asks. He’s definitely hesitant.

John just smiles, not sure where this is going, and Sherlock takes that as a yes. There's a brief shot of the ceiling of his compartment, then static and knocking as Sherlock props his phone up, so John can see more of the layout. Sherlock reaches over to pull down the blind on the window and John takes the opportunity to have a look at Sherlock's digs for the night. There's a small double bed and a sink and John is touched to see Sherlock's Belstaff hanging from a peg on the back of a door - it’s a touch of normality that grounds him. The light changes, goes dark, then returns in a much more subtle shade; bedside lamps, John realises. It's hardly a big space and Sherlock steps back as far away from the camera as he can, then smirks at John, his hands going to his belt and doing nothing to hide that fact that he’s already hard.

"Sherlock!" John murmurs, leaning forward, trying to get himself as close to the image as he can.

But his husband ignores him, unbuckles his belt, unhooks and unzips, and pushes his trousers off his slim hips.

John almost swallows his tongue. He doesn't know whether to laugh or whimper.

There, in the dim light of a train carrying his husband home, Sherlock Holmes is wearing the gift that John bought him for Valentine's Day last year. They're almost sheer and exquisitely form hugging, the black and the red flattering Sherlock's colouring perfectly. The hearts are just big enough to make out and John so desperately wants to touch and understand how they feel and fit his body that he can't quite catch his breath. 

Sherlock hasn't finished though. He unbuttons and shucks his shirt, then bends down to pull off his socks, popping back up a second later to perform a slow, deliberate circle, allowing John to fully appreciate the beauty of his aroused form wearing the tight, silky underwear John had picked out for him. 

"You kept them," John husks and has to clear his throat.

"Of course. Just waiting for a special occasion to wear them. Today seemed appropriate."

"I thought... I thought you didn't... You didn't seem to like them."

"I'll admit I was taken aback, but having worn them today, I can honestly say that I have had trouble thinking about anything else. They are extremely... inspiring."

Sherlock tilts the screen and moves to lay on his bed, his head propped on his palm, his body turned toward the phone.

"Inspiring how?" John mutters, barely able to recognise his own voice. 

"They are more fitted than my usual style and several times today I have been aware of how they support and... cup... certain areas of my anatomy that... appreciate that feeling."

"They turn you on," John interprets, his voice awed, and swallows as a wicked smirk twists the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Yes, John," Sherlock concurs, and he can hear the bloody ' _obviously_ ' even if the big git doesn't say it. " **A** **nd** they make my bum look fantastic."

To demonstrate Sherlock rolls to face the wall of his berth and tucks up his knees, running one long fingered palm across the swell of his perfect arse. He peeks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow and cheeky smile.

John's mouth floods with saliva. Arousal hits him like a fist to the gut - he suddenly aches with the need to touch and taste and _have._

"What time did you say you would get in?"

"Not until seven, I'm afraid," Sherlock sighs, flopping back onto the bed. "And I don't think I can wait that long..."

"Wait for what?" 

"Inspiration to strike," Sherlock murmurs and he rolls his hips, one hand on his chest and the other curled softly over his groin, just holding.

"You should probably let inspiration take its natural course," John tells him, "Speaking from a medical standpoint that is. "

"Are you... going to stay to watch?" Sherlock asks - his eyes shine in the low light of his berth.

"Sherlock, are there any long tunnels between Edinburgh and here?"

Understanding dawns in Sherlock's eyes and he gives the matter some thought. "Not for a while yet," he reports.

"Long enough to... be inspired?" John asks. Even without meaning to, he has settled himself back on their pillows and his hips are already making minute aborted thrusts as he watches Sherlock's hand flatten and begin to smooth over his fancy underpants. 

"Long enough," Sherlock agrees and despite the awful lighting, the grainy picture and his distance from the camera. John can see as Sherlock presses the heel of his palm harder over the bulging outline of his cock. The pants leave nothing at all to the imagination and are already stretched out as Sherlock fills and hardens even further. 

"I was counting on being home in time to surprise you," Sherlock says softly, his voice going low already.

"Can't be helped," John mutters and he has to swallow again when Sherlock's neck arches from the sensation of his hand on his hardness. "But I wish you were here all the same."

"I think I've primed myself for expecting it to be your hands on me tonight."

"Use your imagination, I'm right here," John tells him. 

Sherlock sighs at that, long and drawn out, and John can't quite believe that he's watching his husband get himself off, dressed only in a pair of tight black, sheer trunks decorated with red hearts. He never saw himself as the kind of guy who sexted or sent lewd pics, but loving Sherlock has gifted him with a newly flexible outlook on what is acceptable. And also on what is unspeakably hot. 

"You look so beautiful like that," John murmurs, not really expecting Sherlock to hear. But Sherlock seems to understand and he plants one foot on the bed, giving himself the leverage to push his hips up into his hand. He's really giving himself over to the feel of it now and even in the dim light, he can see the flush rise on Sherlock's cheeks and neck. 

"What does the material feel like against your skin?" John asks.

"G...good," Sherlock stutters. "It feels good. Smooth and elastic."

"I want to touch... when you get home. I want to feel your warmth through the fabric and map the shape of you with my lips."

Sherlock groans and takes a proper grip on himself now. John feels like he might burst. He wants to reach beneath the covers and take himself in hand in the same way, but he can't drag his eyes away from his husband, pale golden in the light, swaying slightly when the train goes over points. There could be a reindeer migration past the end of his bed and John would be blissfully unaware, all his rapt attention on a lit rectangle 12 cm by 6 cm, holding his breath for fear that he will make a noise and miss one of Sherlock's little grunts or sighs.

He wishes he had known that one day he would be married to the most brilliant, gorgeous, unconventional and inventive man in London - it would have made his teenage years much more bearable. That he could not only fancy a man, but fall in love with one and promise to spend the rest of his life with him - well, that little gem would have kept him going when everything had seemed confusing and best kept quiet.

Anyone who has met Sherlock will tell you that he is a difficult man, bossy and scathing and they wouldn't be wrong (although John would counter that with the words _focussed_ , _precise_ and, critically, _usually right_ ). What they don't know though, because they don't get to share this Sherlock, is that he is also this - a man who trembles when John touches him, a man who laughs and smiles spontaneously and a man who knows how to tell John how much he loves him with every glance, word and touch.

Not only is John having the best sex of his life, but he finds deep contentment in the minutiae of sharing his life - breakfasts while swapping pages of the paper, falling asleep on the sofa watching documentaries, waking up with morning breath and disastrous hair because, under all the genius persona, Sherlock is as human as anyone else - and being allowed to share _that_ is the greatest gift he will ever get. 

Sherlock is holding back and John, who couldn’t look away if he tried, knows it. He can see the tell tale tightness around his eyes and the clench of his jaw. His hand is lighter on his cock now, teasing himself, making it last. The ache in John's groin throbs in time with Sherlock's flexing arm. If the wind blew across the bed just right, John thinks he would come all over himself. 

"Can I see?" John asks quietly. 

Sherlock's eyes half-lidded and half-desperate slide to the screen; he's so far gone.

And god! The things John wants to do to Sherlock right now. He's so open like this, so far from the untouchable consulting detective. All his walls are tumbled for John - and only ever for John - to reach him. Care for him. Love him. 

"Show me, Sherlock. Pull them down far enough that I can see you."

Sherlock's hands are a little clumsy - gone is the strip-tease sass and the cheeky smirk - but he manages to comply, pulling the waistband of the ridiculous pants to stretch across the very tops of his thighs. They're snug, and they force his balls up tight against his cock. It doesn't look all that comfortable, but Sherlock grunts and runs his palm up and off his cock, making it stand straight up before it springs back against his belly. 

John can see the faint shine on the crown where he's leaking. Sherlock rubs upwards again, catching his breath and gathering the moisture there. John glances up to Sherlock's face, to meet his glittering, greedy eyes. He's... he's waiting for his next instruction. 

John's cock jerks and he swears he can feel every single cell in his body, vibrating at the same frequency as the mobile signal. 

"Lick your palm - get it good and wet. Good. Now wrap it around the top... further up, so just the crown... yeah," John breathes. "Just like that."

Sherlock grinds his head back into his pillow as his hand tightens, baring his throat. If John were there, he would kiss that, nip it and revel in the marks he would make. Then he would…

"Pinch your nipple," John grits, the words coming out on a growl. His hand is sweating where he is holding the unyielding shape of his phone when he wants to be touching the cool, smooth skin of Sherlock's body, wants to be driving him out of his mind, wants to watch him fall apart. Sherlock's left hand slides over his belly and rubs the flat of his palm across his chest before plucking one peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Harder," John insists.

Sherlock grunts at the thrill of discomfort and pleasure, and John swears he is feeling the phantom of what Sherlock is experiencing - like a sympathetic reaction to the sensations he can see reflected on his husband's face. Sherlock's hand works faster and faster over his crown; John can hear the slap of his skin and the sticky slick of his palm. 

When Sherlock comes, it seems to take him by surprise and he cries out. He convulses - a full body shudder that travels the length of him, from his curled toes to his thrown back head. He gasps, once, twice and the third time his bowed body relaxes back onto the bed. He works himself slowly through the aftershocks, his twitches and stretches like ripples across his skin as he struggles to settle his breath.

He has no recollection of doing so, but John has already got his hand inside his pyjama bottoms. At the first whisper of a touch, John realises that he is already much too far gone to mess around. He takes a firm grip on himself - there's no time to find lube or get more comfortable. The need to come thrums under his skin like static on a thundery day, demanding and imperative. Watching Sherlock come apart like that, so trusting and uninhibited is one of the sexiest things he has ever done - and that's saying something.

John had wondered if, now they were married, that things would settle down. He's heard that commitment and stability often take the place of spontaneity and variety, particularly in the bedroom. They have been together for several years and while their sex life has varied, sometimes loving and familiar, other times pushing boundaries, John is still surprised by the way Sherlock responds to him. For a man who lives so much in his own head, when Sherlock does deign to come down from that lofty tower, he's an enthusiastic and vocal advocate of the physical side of their life together. John had worried that his husband’s usual disregard for his transport might make reaching him harder; he need not have worried. John makes no attempt to hide that he finds Sherlock desirable and Sherlock has eagerly responded to John's admiration and assured John that the sentiment is mutual. This game that they play with the dressing up is only a tiny part of their relationship, but one that they both seem to gain a lot of pleasure from. 

Sherlock calls his name and John shivers at the sensations swamping his nervous system. He opens bleary eyes to see Sherlock's equally sleepy gaze watching him, a smile playing around his bitten pink lips. 

The need to come slams through him like a lightning bolt. Sherlock's eyes, Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock's 'just come' blush are too much - he can smell his shampoo on the pillow next to him and John groans aloud as a handful of short, rough pulls has him tipping over the edge and striping the inside of his pyjamas, his wrist and his groin with his release. He vaguely considers that he ought to be ashamed of coming so fast, but watching Sherlock take his own pleasure had him so keyed up, it was inevitable. He shudders through his climax, sharp and hard.

For a minute or two, the only sound John can hear is the thunder of his heart pushing blood through his pulsing veins and his breathing settling. Slowly he becomes aware of the sound of the train, tinny and muffled through the mobile’s speaker. He finds his phone and picks it up with his clean hand. Sherlock's eyes are still open, watching him. The lamplight picks out his shape, blue shadows and amber lines. 

"Best Valentine's Day ever," John smiles.

"It's Valentine's Day?" Sherlock asks and John is just about to sound incredulous when he sees the quirk of his husband's lips and the lift of his eyebrow. He's brought the phone closer now and John can only see his head and shoulders. 

"Get some rest, you great idiot," John yawns already wondering if he can be bothered to shower or if he can get away with a quick wipe down with the ruined pyjama trousers and sort the rest out in the morning.

"The motion of the train is surprisingly soothing," Sherlock admits, yawning in sympathy with John. 

"I'll see you in the morning, love."

"Wait! Don't you want to see what I got for you in Edinburgh?"

"Oh, yeah, okay." John is tired and that orgasm has just about knocked him out for the night, but Sherlock wants to show him a haggis or a kilt or something... actually a kilt might be fun.

Sherlock unselfconsciously shucks the ruined trunks and sits up to rummage through his posh, leather travel bag. John stifles another yawn and tries to look aware. Recovering a small bag , Sherlock unfolds it and reaches inside. It's not big enough for a kilt, which John manfully accepts, but tucks the idea away for later. Instead Sherlock pulls out barely a handful of material and, hooking it from a long, long, pale finger he holds it up in front of his phone for John to see.

At first John's brain refuses to make sense of the image, but there really is no denying that what Sherlock has bought him is a tiny slice of white, satin material, festooned with ruby red hearts and it is hooked over Sherlock's finger by the red - is it ribbon or lace? - thongs that are attached to the miniscule garment at three points, making a silky pouch. 

John's cock makes a gallant effort and manages a dull twitch at the look of delight in Sherlock's eyes from whatever it is that his face is giving away.

"I'll be there in seven hours," Sherlock grins and the screen goes blank.

Fin


End file.
